Neonic Fishnetties
by portionss-forfoxes
Summary: Amy is PMSing.  The Doctor must deal.  S5, pre-Rory.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **"Neonic Fishnetties"

**Author: **brokenheartedshipper/Dori (moi)

**Characters, Pairings: **Amy, Eleven, Amy/Eleven

**Summary: **Series 5 AU (meaning Rory's a no-no)

**Warnings: **Amy's PMSing. The Doctor must deal.

**Rating: **T/PG-13 for swearing and…mentions of the female anatomy, I guess?

**Notes: **It's been an idea floating around in my head for a while, and then I started PMSing last week and this was the humorous outlet for my venting, I suppose. Also, not dark or angsty; this is the second fic in my Amy/Eleven humor series, preceded by "Under the Influence" and followed by "It's Time to Shut Up Now."

*/*

"Ugghhh," Amy groaned again, kicking up her leg and letting it fall back to the floor again.

"What is it," the Doctor returned flatly, his eyes not leaving page 2,187 of his favorite book, _There Will Come A Time. _It was a quite thrilling Gallifreyan crime novel he'd salvaged; critics had deemed it "frivolous" and "much too short," but the Doctor always loved breezy, light detective stories, like—ah!—_Crime and Punishment_. Marvelous short story, that was.

"Nothing," Amy sighed. They were in the Tardis library, where the Doctor often went to read and be alone, but this time Amy had insisted on following him for the sole purpose of moaning in two-minute intervals.

About two minutes later, Amy said:

"Urghmf glbr!" She raised her arms up in frustration, strangled an invisible stranger with her hands, then let them fall again. She was sprawled out on her back on the library floor, arms and legs spread-eagle, apparently trying to impersonate bonelessness.

"Amy," the Doctor sighed, snapping his book shut dramatically (he immediately regretted this decision—he should've at least kept a finger surreptitiously in his place), "you've been here for thirty minutes and all you've done is groan every ninety seconds, which can do nothing but lead me to believe you have something you wish to convey to me."

"No, it's just…" Amy shot him a pointed look (which was not nearly as clear from her horizontal position) "—Cramps."

"Ah," the Doctor replied knowingly, nodding his head. "Space travel will do that to you. Intergalactic movement isn't one hundred percent compatible with the human bone structure—it's perfectly normal to feel some aches and pains every so often." Satisfied, he reopened _There Will Come A Time_, beginning the search for his page number.

"No, _Doctor_," Amy spat, rolling her eyes and throwing in an exasperated _Uh! _"Not _those _kinds of cramps."

The Doctor frowned in thought, attempting to piece together this information.

"Oh," he squeaked, blushing.

Amy leapt from the ground (much more nimbly than someone allegedly pained by cramps should be) and scurried over to the Doctor, speaking quickly like a teenage girl begging to go out.

"It's just that usually the Tardis knows even before I do when it's going to start, and I'll go into the bathroom and there'll be Kotex and everything—" At the word 'Kotex' the Doctor slammed shut his book again and rose to his feet, spontaneously deciding to find its place on the shelves. To his detriment, Amy trailed behind, grasping his forearm.

"—but this time it's started early, God knows why, and so I guess she's a bit slow on the uptake, and also these cramps are _really, really _bad, Doctor, _really _bad, and I was just hoping maybe possibly—" Here she sped up beyond imagination "—we could just make a quick stop off at a drug store, in _any _First World country anytime after, oh, I don't know, 1965, and then I'll be fine and dandy, and it won't even take that long, you just have to go in and grab the Midol and the tamp—"

"All right, all right!" the Doctor splurted. "I'll do it. You don't have to say…that."

Amy popped a hip, the earnest pleading look replaced by a more familiar evil smile.

"What, you mean…tampon?"

"Ah!" the Doctor squeaked, an unintentional outburst. He cleared his throat, tilting up his chin to straighten his bowtie authoritatively.

"Menstrual cramps?" Amy prodded. The Doctor turned the color of the Gallifreyan sky and whirled around, pretending to search the shelves for…something.

"Period!" Amy shouted. "Ovaries! Uterus! Fallopian tubes!"

The back of his neck looked like it might burst into flames at any second.

Amy allowed a dramatic pause. Then she leaned up against his back, leaning onto her tiptoes to whisper into his ear,

"Vaginal cavity?"

He literally jumped, knocking over a shelf of books on cooking in the Acorn galaxy. Amy watched the spines gleefully as they toppled over one by one like dominoes.

Clearing his throat didn't do much good for the regaining of his composure, as the tops of his ears were still redder than Ron Weasley's. He spun around, hands clasped.

"_All right_, Amy," the Doctor said, his voice cracking the tiniest bit. "We'll make a small pit stop for your, uh…"

"Cramps."

"Yes. Precisely. C-cramps….Terrible hindrances they are, really. Cramps. Just terrible," the Doctor babbled, skating past her towards the console room in the hopes of getting their "pit stop" over as soon as possible.

Amy skipped along behind him (suspiciously fluidly, too), grinning like the mad little devil she was.

The Doctor made it to the console, then stood motionless, hands poised in the air ready for action, unsure of exactly what to do.

"How about Los Angeles, Doctor," Amy suggested helpfully. "In, say…1985. I'd love a pair of rainbow leg-warmers if they have those at Rite-Aid, while you're at it."

"Right, sure, of course!" the Doctor replied, fingers tickling the air. "The 1980s, America. Great time for teenage cinema…it'd be quite interesting to catch the premiere of a John Hughes film, say…'The Breakfast Club'…" He caught sight of Amy's hopeful expression and speedily revised, "Not that we're going to. No, no. Just the, uh, the…"

"The tampons," Amy supplied helpfully.

"Right, the—those, and then we'll be on our way."

"Okay," Amy sighed, "whatever you say." (These words being spoken by Amy understandably made the Doctor very nervous.)

By this time he had punched in a date sometime in February and was hurrying about in circles, performing his usual twirls and hand flourishes. Amy watched his nimble fingers as they flipped switches with a bit of a teasing flick, curved around levers one by one, pushed buttons with a small swirl, and finally, as they traced the Tardis' console, slow and soft and almost…_reverently_. Amy was surprised she hadn't noticed before.

Then, all at once, he yanked down the final level, _hard_, and they went soaring. Amy held tightly to the railing, watching the Doctor's grin, which was just as delighted as Amy knew it would've been the very first time he flew. She realized then that the flicking and cradling, swirling and tracing—the _fondling_, you might even call it—was routine. It was something the Doctor did with his Sexy every single time they flew, like a dance whose steps the two of them had learned a long, long time ago, a dance of which they never tired. There was a certain…_intimacy _to it all; Amy felt a bit like she had at seventeen, when she'd gone to a party and flung open a door to find her friend Peggy and that one bloke, snogging each other's faces off. Like she was intruding on something.

All of the sudden Amy felt a bizarre wave of jealousy, towards a _blue wooden box_, no less (admittedly, a blue wooden box who could fly through time and space and contain the soul of a living being, but _still_). It was in the way the Doctor _touched _her—the Tardis, that is. As another woman had once remarked, "It's always you and her, isn't it? Long after the rest of us have gone. _A boy and his box off to see the universe_." Images flew through Amy's mind at high speeds; the Doctor was teasing her unclothed form with a tiny, casual flick; he was curling his long fingers around her hip, leisurely, one by one; swirling his finger on her skin before pushing on it, focused, deep; he was motionless, paused in time, and then _Wham!_—hard.

Suddenly the Tardis lurched forward, and Amy, disoriented, lost her grip on the railing and fell onto her side. No, not her side—_the _side.

Cramps. Motherfucking cramps.

"Ah, here we are!" the Doctor sing-songed cheerfully a few seconds later. "Los Angeles, California, 1985, on the corner of the Sunset Strip, where, if I'm not mistaken, there _should _be—" By this time, he'd leapt lurchingly over to the doors, and now he whipped them open with gusto— "Aha! A Rite-Aid!" With a huge, triumphant grin on his face, he spun on his heel to find Amy resuming the same position she'd been so fond of in the library.

"Amy?" his tone was concerned, and he rushed over to her, kneeling by her head. "Are you all right?'

Amy forced herself to open her eyes—she'd bumped her head on the railing—and saw the Doctor's upside-down face (riddled with worry) hovering over her.

"Get me…some fucking Midol," she demanded through gritted teeth. "Right…_now_."

Though he would never admit it, one thing that scared him even more than daleks or Sycoraks or blind, invisible, abandoned chicken-aliens, was the unadulterated wrath of Amy Pond. He had not yet experienced it in full, and he did not care to.

Needless to say, he was already scrambling to stand upright, his feet seeming to have lost all friction with the ground as though he was a cartoon character.

"Right, yes, Midol!" he yelped. "Right away! I'll just be…I'll be back in a moment!"

"You sure as hell _better _be!" Amy shrieked. She did not sound jocular.

She heard the Tardis doors shut behind him, and she was immediately left alone to decipher her own inexplicable thoughts. She quickly found an explanation for it all, and muttered it to herself as she hauled herself off the floor and upstairs to bed: "Bloody hormones."


	2. Mad, Impossible

**Title**: Neonic Fishnetties  
><strong>Author<strong>: janeausten4ever  
><strong>Characters, Pairings<strong>: Amy/Eleven  
><strong>Setting<strong>: Series 5, pre-Rory  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Amy's PMSing. The Doctor must deal.  
><strong>Notes<strong>: It's been an idea floating around in my head for a while, and then when I started PMSing last week it all just sort of...flooded out. And this does not mean that there won't be a second part to "like a name from a fairytale." This is not some of my best writing, but...oh well. This is not dark or angsty, unlike some of my other fics.

Neonic Fishnetties

The Doctor found himself in quite a dilemma. He stood tapping his foot nervously and biting the fingernails of one hand while the other held onto his elbow. What…to…do.

He'd found the Midol easily in the drug aisle (the Doctor wasn't _entirely _knowledgeable on human medication of recent years, but he knew that "drug" was a word most often associated with mind-altering substances. So where, he wondered, was the little green box labeled "Marijuana"? A young man of sixteen or seventeen had walked past him donning black leather pants and green hair in spikes so sharp they could be used as a weapon against the daleks. He had earrings in a giant jumble attached to both ears, and a face made up of more sterling silver than skin. One particular location which the Doctor could not quite comprehend was on his _tongue_. He wore a blue apron with a name-tag that said "Hello, My Name Is Slash." He did not offer the Doctor any help in locating the Midol, but he _did _give him a quite extraordinary sneer. _Ah, _the Doctor thought to himself as young Slash walked on, _but he doesn't know I'm cool enough to have participated in the inhalation of marijuana toxins. _At this the Doctor smiled, proud of himself).

But now here he was, in the Hygiene aisle, completely at a loss. There were so many _options_. Did he want mini? Maxi? _Super-maxi_? Should he call Amy and ask? (He then realized that to know the answer to this question he would have to be informed of the size of her…_parts_, and he also knew that she would take advantage of this question as best she could to humiliate him, so he wisely decided against a phone call). And what about brand? Tampax Pearl? Playtex Sport? Carefree? Didn't Amy mention something about High-Techs? Did he want maximum protection without flexibility, or flexibility with a gentle glide? What was a 'gentle glide,' anyway? (He figured it out, and blushed). Should he get the other things, too? The peanut-shaped napkin thingies? There were too many choices! In the past he'd fancied himself _fantastic _at making the right decision in two seconds flat, but _this_…this was a whole different ball-game.

"Excuse me…" The Doctor turned to his left to see a Madonna-esque twenty-something dressed in neon green fishnets and a hot pink sweatshirt with cut-off shoulders. Her hair was, to express the bare minimum, colossal. The Doctor could not comprehend how one could cultivate such mass and volume with mere Earth tools. Surely she was in possession of a super-sonic comb. There was no _way _she could—

"…noticed you seem to be unable to make up your mind, and I thought, why not help him out?" She gave him a sly grin and he attempted to detract his attention from the foot of blonde impossibility atop her head. It was a difficult task.

"Oh—yes, that—that would be lovely!" The Doctor heaved a sigh of relief, glad to have found such a trusty collaborator. That is, until he realized she was not headed for the High-Techs, but for—

"So…are you Magnum, or…" She slipped a pack of Trojans off the rack and wiggled an eyebrow at him suggestively.

The Doctor went positively crimson.

"No, I, uh—I'll have to be on my way now," he said, reaching randomly for a pack of hygiene products. "Off to the napkin aisle. Got a very important meeting with a…napkin. So I'll just—I'll be off, then! Nice meeting you!" He giggled nervously. "Goodbye!"

"What the fuck is this," Amy deadpanned when the Doctor handed her the plastic grocery bag.

"It's, you know…that thing you wanted."

Amy looked up at him from her bed, blinking. "Doctor," she informed him, "I _sat up _for this. And you give me _this_? _This bullshit_?"

"No-no, look!" The Doctor reached for the box, opened it quickly and pulled one out without thinking. "It's what you asked for! See? See?"

"No, _dickwad_," Amy growled, grabbing the vile object and unwrapping it with a vengeance. "Look. Look at this. Do you see this? This is _cardboard_. _Cardboard_, Doctor! And you're asking me to _insert this into my body_? You want me to have to endure _cardboard embedded INSIDE OF ME_? What do you think I am, some kind of _cardboard whore_?" She seized the box and hurled it at him with the velocity of a baseball swing, despite the fact that he was about two feet away from her.

The cardboard fiends erupted out of the box onto him, and the Doctor leapt about in a frenzy.

"I will not _stand _for this! I deserve plastic! Sweet, beautiful _plastic_, Doctor, _do you hear me_?"

"Yes, yes, I—" the Doctor wheezed, jumping towards the door while brushing Tampax off his body as though they were spiders.

"_Now_!" Amy roared with the equal lung capacity and potential for exacting decapitation of a lion.

She settled back into her pillows crossly as soon as the door shut behind the Doctor. _Bloody cardboard…_

The door opened and the Doctor's head popped in, his body too afraid to follow suit. "So I'm assuming that means you want 'gentle-glide'?" he winced.

"_Yrghfrrr!_" Amy heaved an errant Tampax at him, and he yelped, closing the door tightly behind him.

Amy had calmed down a bit by the time he returned the second time, and she'd also found time to mull over how depressing everything in her life was, and how she was fat and unlovable, and also where was all the food. All of this pondering left her in a considerably more fragile state than before.

"A-my," the Doctor hummed in the same cheerful and flat-out terrified tone with which one could assume Godzilla's mother wakes him for school. "Look what I brought you this time!"

Amy stared up at the Doctor with wide, hopeless eyes. Nothing was worth wishing for anymore. Everything was fucked. Also, where was all the food.

Sitting up with a resigned sigh, she opened the new box—which, oddly enough, didn't have a label on it—and out fell piles and piles of blue table napkins, cut in the wobbly fashion of a peanut.

Amy couldn't help it. She started laughing, softly at first, then louder and louder. Soon she was heaving in breaths and shaking, snorts unavoidable.

The Doctor was confused at first. Then, shakily, he laughed too, pointing at the napkins as if he'd gotten the joke all along (he still didn't). "Oh. Ha. Ha-ha. Yes, it's quite funny. Ha."

Just as he was starting to appreciate the true humor of the situation, and laughing harder now—blue peanut napkins! What an _idiot_!—he realized that Amy was sobbing uncontrollably.

"Oh, oh, oh, hey now, Amy, what's wrong? Sshh, sshh, what's wrong?"

"It's just—you're being—s-s ni-hi-hice to meee!" Amy answered, shoulders shaking. "No one's ever done that f-for me befo-beforrrre!"

"What, cut you up homemade hygiene products with blue dinner napkins?"

Amy smiled. "You're funny," she said. She chuckled, and then blew her nose into his shoulder.

"Hey, hey, it's all right. Sh, you're going to be all right," the Doctor chimed, rocking her back and forth.

When she'd surpassed the wheezing-and-sobbing stage and reached the sniffling-and-eye-wiping stage, Amy asked him,

"Why'd you decide to make them yourself?"

"The drug store didn't have blue ones," he answered simply. Amy looked at him for a moment, a small frown on her face, before laughing. Of course they had to be blue.

"Well, here. Let me help you out by being a tad more specific," Amy said, surprised by how well she was holding down the sarcasm. "Could you please go back to the Rite-Aid and get me some gentle-glide maxi-size Kotex, please?"

"Kotex, _that's _it!" the Doctor exclaimed, slapping his palm against his forehead. "I'll get you some. Only…I can't go back to that Rite-Aid."

"Why not?"

"There's, um…there's an unfriendly alien there. Yes. Unfriendly alien, very hostile, attempting to take over the earth as usual. Hm. Yes."

Amy looked concerned. "Well shouldn't we stop them?" she questioned, getting to her feet.

"Er, well, no," the Doctor improvised. "They, uh, haven't got much of a chance. Quite…stupid. Extremely low IQ."

"What're they called?"

"The, uh…the Neonic Fishnetties. Very stupid creatures. Very stupid."

Amy shrugged and sat back down. "All right then. Just wander around for a bit until you find another Rite-Aid, I suppose."

"Yes. Yes, that's what I'll do."

Later that night, the Doctor and a much more emotionally stable Amy sat in their seats at the Kodak Theatre to view the premiere of 'The Breakfast Club.'

"How did you get me into this, again?" the Doctor asked, reaching for some popcorn before Amy could devour it all.

"Well, first I yelled, then I cried, then I tried to seduce you, then it started working so you said if I'd be willing to put off the 'funny business' for a later date you'd cave and take me here."

"Ah, yes," the Doctor sighed. "You know you're quite volatile, Amy. Never do know what I'm going to get when it comes to you."

"Yes," Amy answered matter-of-factly. "I'm your mad, impossible Amy Pond."


End file.
